


Memories Aren't the Only Things that Leave

by Multifandom_damnation



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Amnesia, Gen, I hope this is ok, I wrote this before last weeks ep by the way, Memories, Muteness, Nightmares, Yasha and Jester are really hard to write you guys, sorry no one really sounds right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-25 00:52:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14367396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Multifandom_damnation/pseuds/Multifandom_damnation
Summary: "Mollymauk was used to nightmares.Used to the suffocating darkness or the blinding white light, used to the silence and the earth-shattering roars, used to the pain and the soft comfort, used to the heat and the cold, used to the burning flames and the freezing water, used to it all. Used to waking up with no recount of what seemed like a night of tormenting nothingness, used to waking up with flashes.Molly was used to nightmares, but he wasn’t used to sharing a room with someone other than Yasha, someone who didn’t know about his nightmares or how to deal with them, not used to other people who weren’t the other carnival folk who knew that nothing good came from questioning nightmares and these new people cared more about safety and reassurance and togetherness than secrets and self-preservation."





	Memories Aren't the Only Things that Leave

**Author's Note:**

> Woah, that was a great ep. I actually started writing this before then, had the idea since Toya said Molly wasn't speaking when he came to the carnival. Went back through it and added stuff to fit more with last weeks ep. I know it is never something to become canon, but I occasionally enjoy the idea of nonverbal Molly losing his voice after really bad nightmares.  
> Thanks for reading!

Mollymauk was used to nightmares.

Used to the suffocating darkness or the blinding white light, used to the silence and the earth-shattering roars, used to the pain and the soft comfort, used to the heat and the cold, used to the burning flames and the freezing water, used to it all. Used to waking up with no recount of what seemed like a night of tormenting nothingness, used to waking up with flashes.

Sometimes he woke up screaming, screaming until his voice was hoarse and he tasted blood, eyes open and unseeing. Sometimes he’s silent, fingers twisting in the bedsheets or the earth or his bedroll, mouth open in a silent scream. Sometimes the only thing that comes to his mind is Infernal, and it wouldn’t be so embarrassing if Jester hadn’t heard him. She tells him sometimes he begs, sometimes he roars a battle cry, sometimes he prays.

Yasha, Molly realises, is a great preventer of these nightmares, always seeming to know when they were coming on, knew when they were happening- even the silent ones. When they were still with the carnival, before the two of them shared a tent, Molly would soundlessly sneak out in the middle of the night to find Yasha’s tent and she would stop the nightmares altogether.

Yasha knew how to deal with them, deal with _him_ , even when he woke up with no words to tell her what happened or explain how much he needed her, how little he could remember about something he feels like he shouldn’t have been able to forget.

Molly was used to nightmares, but he wasn’t used to sharing a room with someone other than Yasha, someone who didn’t know about his nightmares or how to deal with them, not used to other people who weren’t the other carnival folk who knew that nothing good came from questioning nightmares and these new people cared more about safety and reassurance and togetherness than secrets and self-preservation.

Fjord tried to shake him awake that night, ask what was wrong, but only Molly managed a few strangled words in Infernal and something he hoped sounded like “ _Yasha_ ” before the words left him entirely and he sat there with tears streaming down the sides of his face and his voice aching from screaming again as the illusion-images burned on replay behind his eyelids from a dream he couldn’t remember.

He was drowning, a burning weight on his chest as he sank deeper into the inky blackness of lost memories and fear, eyes unblinkingly seeing the faint shimmers of green through the haze and the fog. He opened his mouth to speak, but his voice was gone, frozen on the tip of his tongue. Fjord’s hands gripped his shoulder to shake him awake, red clouding his vision, thick wet sliding down his face. The gentle weight of Fjord’s hands left him for a moment, replaced soon by the much heavier hands he was used to, Yasha’s worried face appearing in his vision.

Soon, he was being lifted up, dragged out towards the door, feet dragging behind him. He couldn’t hear Yasha’s concerned questions through the ringing in his ears, nor those of his friends poking their heads out of their rooms, but Yasha turned to him with her mouth moving and her eyes wide, yanking Molly down the stairs and outside the door of the tavern. 

Yasha’s hands running up and down his bare arms and the wind rushing over his hair, soon Molly’s breathing returned to a frantic rhythm but he was _breathing_ and he reached his hand up to wipe away the wet from his eyes, fingers pulling away red with blood. His eyes met Yasha’s concerned ones, his lips moving with no sound save from the ringing in his ears, but soon enough the ringing faded and Yasha’s voice came through muffled at first, growing louder and louder the slower his breathing went.

He opened his mouth to speak, to tell her, but no words passed through his lips. Yasha stopped talking. Eyes growing wide. “Gone?” she asked, placing a firm hand gently on the side of his head. “Completely?” he could do nothing but nod, tears welling up in his eyes again. His breathing started to hasten, quicker and quicker. “Hey, relax. Breathe. It’ll come back, it always has, we just have to wait it out.”

“Is he alright?” Nott called out from her room's window, sticking her head out of the splintering wooden frame, hair and bandages flowing in the chilly night wind, mask off. “What happened? Is he hurt?”

Molly suddenly realised how cold he was, in the cool night air. His overcoat was still by his bedside, his swords still wrapped safely in the silk and his cards on his bedside table. He felt naked, exposed, without his most prized possessions. Yasha looked up at Nott, giving her a thumbs up and the goblin disappeared back inside the window.

“We’ll figure it out ok?” Yasha ran a finger along the ridge of his horns. “It’ll come back. It has every other time.”

The lights that were previously on in his friends' rooms had gone out. The only light in the building that was on was the one in his and Fjords room, the many people's shadows that now flooded the space making Molly nervous.

Yasha didn’t take Molly back to his room, to his bed, instead dragging him to her own room she’d rented and buried him in pillows and blankets, leaving to get his cloak and his swords and his cards.

“Is he alright?” Fjord asked with a face full of concern as Yasha shouldered her way through the door. “What happened?”

She didn’t like the eyes on her, the many pairs of eyes she should be used to by now, and couldn’t understand how Molly could stand it. “Nightmare. He’ll be fine in a few days, maybe a week.”

“A few _days_?” Nott asked, outraged, disbelieving. “How long does it take for him to get over a bad dream?”

Yasha felt herself stiffen, resisting the urge to whirl around and snarl at the goblin, fists clenched. “Maybe it’s not the dream itself.” She snapped through grit teeth. “Have you ever thought of that?” She pushed her way through the door, stopping her way to her room, slowly turning the squeaky knob and entering.

The room was dark, and Molly was huddled up in a bundle of blankets, breathing heavily. Yasha made her way inside, placing Molly’s things where she knew he would find them. She sat on the floor, watching, waiting, worrying.

As the mornings came, Molly’s voice did not.

He stayed close to Yasha’s side- sometimes a little too close- and kept his head down. Each night he spent in her room, he slept on the floor, waking with a familiar burning in his chest and lungs, holding him down and keeping him still on the floor with dirt above him and dirt below him and dirt _in_ him until Yasha’s hands reached down into the tight, suffocating bundle of blankets and pillows he was smothered in and pull him to his feet while he got back the breath he thought was forced away and that one word, that dreaded word the only thing out of his trembling lips. Yasha would hold him, hold him tight against him while he shook and gasped, hushing him with gentle words and gentle fingers soothing his frightened mind with a soft hand over his hair, his horns, his tail.

The others would look at him like he was crazy. In fights, he was silent, not even his loud, cackling laughter heard from the battlefield, his silver tongue so often filled with insults in Infernal fell silent. Often they thought they would never know he was there at all if it had not been for the hissing of his swords through the air and the grunt of pain as they sunk into the flesh of attackers.

He couldn’t tell Jester when he needed healing, instead silently suffering from the agonising pain of moving with broken limbs or punctured organs or constant bleeding. Sometimes, it was much, much worse and he would collapse on the ground in a silent heap with poison flowing through his veins or a spell sending liquid fire through his body, his breath like sharpened daggers and darkened spots dancing between his eyes like a kaleidoscope of pain.

Cards shifting between his fingers as he sat at a bar stool, Yasha ordered him drinks without needing to ask- the strong spirits, the coloured ones- and he knocked them back without a sound, eyes glaring hard into the old sticking wood of the bar, tail silently swishing by his legs. Caleb would watch him from his seat at the table, eyes glowing a brilliant blue as he sent Frumpkin to curl up on Molly’s lap and purr, rubbing his fur against the tiefling's hand. Blinking back, Molly had put his cards down, fingers obscured by the vibrant orange of Frumpkin’s fur and his head had dropped down to his chest. A flash back to Frumpkin and Caleb could tell Molly’s eyes had fluttered closed.

Nott leaned up against him, flask in hand, hair falling in front of her eyes. Caleb reached a hand out and moved it behind her ear. “What do you think is wrong with him?” Nott squeaked, pointedly looking at Molly. Yasha tensed from beside him, but made no other move to show she was listening. “Do you think he’s ok?”

“I do not know, but I think he will _be_ ok,” Caleb tried hard to believe it himself. “Yasha said he had gotten through his before, _ja_? I am sure he will be fine.”

Snorting, Beau crossed her arms and placed her feet on the top of the large round table with a loud thump, earning a disapproving look from the barkeep, Fjord sighing and tossing her another gold piece. “He’s bullshitting, he’s gotta be.” She took another gulp from her mug. Already his words sounded slow and tired. “You know Molly; he never shuts the fuck up. He’s trying to make us feel sorry for him. He’s fine. There’s nothing wrong.”

Fjord eyed Yasha, her shoulders high, back straight, head tilted to the side. Definitely listening. “Maybe shut your mouth for once Beau. I mean, I can’t say I completely disagree, but if you’re gonna talk about it, maybe do it somewhere his bodyguard can’t break your face? Alright?”

“I think we should,” Caleb argued as he watched Jester hide her face behind her giant flagon of milk, eyes held tight on Molly’s silent form. “We talk about him enough on his back anyway. I don’t know why it matters if Yasha knows. I’m sure she’s used to it.”

“Right,” Fjord sighed, scowling at Caleb through his lashes as the wizard crossed his arms in defiance. “But she could- and probably would- very easily take your head off your shoulders.”

“Why are you all so mean!” Jester shouted, slamming her flagon down and growling at the Nein, fangs bared and eyes narrowed. “He isn’t doing it on purpose! He isn’t! It’s not his fault! Why does it matter if he can’t talk? He’s still our friend and he still helps us fight and-”

“Calm down Jester-” Fjord put his hands up to placate her, but she was having none of it, slamming her fist down hard on the table. Nott quietly slunk closer to Caleb’s side, sinking deeper into the darkened folds of his coat.

“No! You’re not being nice! I’m not going to sit with you if you’re not going to be nice!”

The sudden, violent scraping of wood against wood silenced their argument. Yasha, having slid her chair away from the bar and with a few words to the bartender and a pat on her friends back, more drinks were hurriedly placed in front of Molly and she made her way over to their little table. Her feet were loud, booming earthquakes that echoed throughout the small tavern as she flipped a chair and sat on it backwards, placing her sword on the seat next to her. “So,” her voice was dangerously low, quiet, worrying slow. Her eyes met those at the table individually until they looked away. “Got something to say?”

“Got nothin’” Fjord lied, eyes deep in his cup. Beau kicked him from under the table, nodding to where Molly was sitting- _standing_ now and walking away, previously full glasses now empty. Looking at Caleb, his eyes were already glowing, Frumpkin’s feet pattering on the hardwood floor soon after, following after Mollymauk. “Your charge is leavin’ you, Yasha. You wanna go check up on him?”

Leaning uncomfortably close, Fjord could hear the low growl building up in Yasha’s throat, the slight stench on whisky on her breath and the even fainter but definitely present scent of blood clinging to her clothes like a mist. “Let’s get some things straight. Firstly, he’s not my charge. He’s my family and if you think any different, you'll be missing the capacity to ever think again. Understand?” Fjord nodded. “Good. Secondly, he might not be talking, but he’s not a fucking idiot. He can take care of himself. I don’t need to babysit him. So,”- she looked around the table again- “whatever the fuck you want to say about him, you can say it to me.”

The table grew silent, in which Nott quickly drank the rest of the alcohol in her cup and Caleb cleared his throat every 10 seconds. Yasha didn’t flinch. “They don’t like Molly, Yasha,” Jester whined, flopping onto the tabletop. “And because they don’t like him, they think he’s faking, but he’s not, is he? He really can’t talk.”

“Yes,” Yasha sighed, reaching forward to grab and squeeze Jester’s hand, making the blue-skinned girl grin before Yasha pulled back and crossed her hands over the back of her chair. “It usually doesn’t last this long, but yes. When he came to the carnival, he wasn’t talking, after what happened to him when they found him, he couldn’t talk. So sometimes, after certain nightmares, he goes back to how he was. He can’t help it.”

“Wait,” Nott piqued up, sitting straighter in her seat. “What happened to him?”

“That,” Yasha looked over at Nott, who hid again within the darkness of Caleb’s shadow after her sudden bout of bravery, “Is not a story for me to tell. But it wasn’t good. But trust me, his voice will come back. It always has.”

“Wait,” Beau waved a hand in the air “you’re saying that this has happened before.” It wasn't a question

“Yes?”

“And it’s come back every time? How long?”

“Usually a few weeks, sometimes mounts but rarely- “

Beau interrupted. “Seems bullshit convenience to me. You ever think he could be using you for his own gain?”

Pushing her chair onto two legs, Yasha leaned closer to Beau. “This seems like an interrogation Beauregard.” She bared her teeth. It didn’t have the same effect as the fanged tieflings but it did the job.

“Listen man,” Beau tried to defend herself, eyes flickering between Fjord with his hand out, ready to summon his sword at a moments need, Jester with her whole body still flopped onto the table and Caleb whose eyes were still switching back and forth between Frumpkin looking after Molly and the conversation at the table, Nott’s hand gripped tightly in his. “I’m just trying to figure out-”

“What are you implying?”

“Well, you’re huge and you’re strong and you’re amazing, don’t you think someone small and weak like Molly would use you for protection or intimidation? Doing his dirty work?”

Beau was forced to swiped her legs off of the table and out of the way of the large great sword that was now embedded about 6 inches into the worn table. “I don’t think you understand.” Yasha snarled, deep and primal. “Mollymauk, is my _family_. I would do anything for him. You’re accusing him of using me? He’s just doing the _exact_ thing you’re doing. So stop speaking unless about him like that you want to lose your tongue. He is a greater man than any of you ever will be. None of you have no idea what he’s been through. You’re all lucky to have him around. Do I make myself clear?”

Strangled apologies and a flurry of nodding shifted throughout the table as Yasha removed her sword from the wood with a grunt and followed Mollymauk up the stairs.

He was in her room, gagging over the words stuck in his throat as he tried to force them out of him, convulsions shaking his core as he gasped around the words burning him from the inside out. Yasha knelt by him and rubbed his back as his tail wrapped tightly around her legs. “You know; you don’t owe them anything. You don’t have to hurt yourself to prove something to them.”

A long, shuddering breath escaped Molly’s lungs as he straightened up with a look of relief, tail relaxing slightly on Yasha’s ankle. “Well,” he gasped, voice horce after months of unused and the rough circumstances in which he had made it return. “Better now than ever.” Like a shattering vile, the dam in Molly’s throat burst and he laughed, running his hands up and down his face. “Wow, that feels great. I was almost afraid it wouldn’t come back this time, you know?” His voice was raw, thick with painful molasses, sticking to his insides and holding his shattered pieces in one, crackling and broken like Toya’s.

Silently, Yasha gripped the back of Molly’s head and placed their foreheads together, ignoring the tangling of his horns in her hair and the heated burn of his skin against her cool. “You do not owe them anything,” she whispered “nothing, never. They don’t deserve it. You shouldn’t-”

“No,” Molly interrupted, equally quiet, reaching his other hand up to run down the side of her face. “I owe them nothing. But I owe you everything. You, of all people, deserve it.” He pulled away, replacing his forehead with his lips as he placed a kiss on her skin. “Now, let’s sleep. I can’t wait to see their faces in the morning.”

Yasha lifted Molly silently into her bed, pushing him up against the wall with her arms around his much smaller form, his tail laying over her, a familiar weight. “Well,” she mumbled as they both drifted off to sleep. “Goodnight brother.”

“Goodnight sister.”

As darkness came to consume them in the shadows of the night, they both pretended not to notice as small glowing-eyed orange cat jumped onto the bed and forced its way to snuggle between them, Molly threading his fingers in its fur and purring matching their breathing as sleep took them.


End file.
